Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт
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LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night — You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon — The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!"
At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;-and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.
They wept-and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" — When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall;
And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!
— Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
ЛЮСИ ГРЕЙ[40]
Не раз я видел Люси Грей В задумчивой глуши, Где только шорохи ветвей, И зной, и ни души.
Никто ей другом быть не мог Среди глухих болот. Никто не знал, какой цветок В лесном краю растет.
В лесу встречаю я дрозда И зайца на лугу, Но милой Люси никогда Я встретить не смогу.
— Эй, Люси, где-то наша мать, Не сбилась бы с пути. Возьми фонарь, ступай встречать, Стемнеет — посвети.
— Отец, я справлюсь дотемна, Всего-то три часа. Еще едва-едва луна Взошла на небеса.
— Иди, да только не забудь, Мы к ночи бурю ждем. — И Люси смело вышла в путь Со старым фонарем.
Стройна, проворна и легка, Как козочка в горах, Она ударом башмака Взметала снежный прах.
Потом спустился полог тьмы, Завыло, замело. Взбиралась Люси на холмы, Но не пришла в село.
Напрасно звал отец-старик. Из темноты в ответ Не долетал ни плач, ни крик И не маячил свет.
А поутру с немой тоской Смотрели старики На мост, черневший над рекой, На ветлы у реки.
Отец промолвил: — От беды Ни ставней, ни замков. — И вдруг заметил он следы Знакомых башмаков.
Следы ведут на косогор, Отчетливо видны, Через проломанный забор И дальше вдоль стены.
Отец и мать спешат вперед. До пояса в снегу. Следы идут, идут — и вот Они на берегу.
На сваях ледяной нарост, Вода стремит свой бег. Следы пересекают мост… А дальше чистый снег.
Но до сих пор передают, Что Люси Грей жива, Что и теперь ее приют — Лесные острова.
Она болотом и леском Петляет наугад, Поет печальным голоском И не глядит назад.
THE BROTHERS
"These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why, can he tarry yonder? — In our church yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who, in the open air, with due accord Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path That from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters; with the mariners A fellow-mariner; — and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Of caves and trees: — and, when the regular wind Between the tropics filled the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn. And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. — They were the last of all their race: and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary churchyard turned; That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his Brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added. - He had found, Another grave, — near which a full half-hour He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope That he had seen this heap of turf before, — That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once bad been well known to him: And oh what joy this recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, And everlasting hills themselves were changed. By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead. - Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
Leonard.
You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to mis churchyard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you: And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish. - I remember, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had!
Priest.
Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same —
Leonard.
But, surely, yonder —
Priest.
Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false. - On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still. For accidents aud changes such as these, We want not store of them; — a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; A wood is felled:-and then for our own homes! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side — Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys!
Leonard.
Yet your Churchyard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head-nor foot stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
Priest.
Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English churchyard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our firesides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been bom and dies among the mountains.
Leonard.
Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves?
Priest.
For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted.
Leonard.
'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the churchyard wall.
Priest.
That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage — You see it yonder! and those few green fields. They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little — yet a little, — and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him: — but you, Unless our Landlord be your host tonight, Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer —
Leonard.
But those two Orphans!
Priest.
Orphans! — Such they were — Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father: and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old Man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them. - If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave Which will bear looking at.
Leonard.
These boys — I hope They loved this good old Man? —
Priest.
They did — and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. Yes, Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to both by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar, tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them! — From their house the school Is distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse&nbs
